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| image via Lifescouts |
How Mrs. Geek Earned the Skydiving Badge
We met early in the morning and talked
of logistical matters- how many vehicles to take, who should drive, how
many people could fit in each car, would we have time to stop for a
meal. Two of our number were late arriving, but we found out later in
the day that this hour would’ve been spent waiting either way. We
climbed in the cars discussing the lies, half-truths, and denials we’d
fed our parents so that they would let us out of their sights for an
entire day- most, myself included, never told our parents a thing so as
to save unnecessary worry. We swapped stories about how we’d spent the
night before. One boy had wanted to go to confession but was unable to
make it without raising suspicions about why such a thing would be so
completely necessary. He was at peace with his life, though, and knew in
his heart that his affairs were in order and that everything would be
okay. Most of our stories were different in tone from his; we’d had
intentions of going to sleep early to be well-rested and prepared for
the day’s events, but had instead spent the entire evening at bars and
nightclubs and parties with the small, quiet voice in the back of our
minds reminding us that this could be our last night alive, so we should
make the most of it.
We were a surprisingly morbid bunch.
After
two and a half hours of discussions about Power Rangers, questioning
one boy’s sexual preferences, and discovering Seagull Paradise (Seagull
Island? Seagull Village? What did we name that place?) we arrived at the
air field in Delaware and picked up our paperwork.
Most
people signed their lives away blindly; I tried to read the whole thing
carefully, wanting to know exactly what my family’s rights were should
something happen, exactly who they could sue (the answer: no one), but
in the end my impatience beat my maturity and I scribbled my signature
on the last page and rushed to turn it back in. I scribbled my signature
again on a check for $150 and was disappointed to hear that the
video/pictures package was unavailable that day. We took our seats in
the shade and waited to hear our names called to begin our (very, very,
very) brief training.
It
was summertime hot, but not nearly as stifling as the 100 degrees of
weeks past, so a Frisbee was thrown about and a really terrible game of
volleyball soon began. The sun reached its highest peak in the sky
overhead (behind a humid haze of thin white clouds) and our stomachs
rumbled with complaints about a lack of breakfast or lunch. We were told
that our first set still had an hour and a half to wait, so a few of us
drove from the middle of nowhere to a little west of the middle of
nowhere, past cornfields and cemeteries and railroad tracks, to a tiny
restaurant advertising pizza and subs.
I ate as if I’d never eaten before, as
if I’d never tasted a ham sandwich quite so delicious, then proceeded to
look at the “coolest CD player ever,” one which was “so tight.” Our
little lunchtime delegation found a grocery store on our way back to the
middle of nowhere and purchased bottled water to keep us energized.
As
we climbed back in the car with the water in the trunk, it dawned on me
exactly why we were in the parking lot of a Food Lion in DelMar (the
place where Delaware and Maryland come together, where the land is
divided by crooked, curvy streets marking the boundaries), and for the
first time that day my adrenaline started pumping.
The
pumping died down when we were met in the parking lot by an instructor,
offering us vouchers to come back another day if we wished since the
wait was literally going to be all day long. Two of our number took him
up on the offer; they were staying the whole weekend at the beach there
anyway and would come back the next day. The other ten of us all decided
that since we’d traveled so far to get here and spent all day building
up the anticipation, a few more hours couldn’t do us any harm.
We
sat around sharing funny stories about work and downing the lukewarm
bottled water as if it were the elixir of life, and all the while I kept
snapping pictures and telling people to smile, because this could be
the last picture ever taken of them.
“You mean the last picture ever taken of me alive,” someone said. “I’m sure they take pictures while they prep for burial.”
We
laughed about painting the fields with our mangled bodies, wondering if
we could manage to smash into the ground in the form of a smiley
face. We said we should call our lawyers (though none of us actually
have any) and hurriedly arrange a last will and testament, promising our
cars and stereos and gun collections and other favorite worldly
possessions to whomever managed to survive the day if we did not. The
instructors listening to our morbid conversation chuckled and shook
their heads and kept walking past.
We
were laughing at the thought of death. We were so young, so alive, that
the idea of dying seemed so preposterous that the only way to deal with
it was to joke about it. We could simply not fathom the idea that
perhaps the adventure we were about to embark on could end in some way
other than a safe return. We were invincible.
The first pair was called to receive
their harnesses. I tagged along, trusty camera in hand, wanting to
document the entire experience on film so that friends and family would
know why we were gone in case we didn’t return. Still we smiled.
The
little Cessna came trundling into view and the boys met their
instructors who tweaked their harnesses and reminded them again about
the simple choreography of limbs necessary to insure that everything
went smoothly. Suddenly they were squeezing themselves into the back of
the rickety old plane, and I felt my first wave of fear; we were really
going to do this.
Fifteen
minutes went by (maybe more?) but it felt like an eternity. The next
pair was called in for preparation, and again I photographed the ordeal
of hooking snaps and pulling belts and turned my face away to hide my
blush as the instructor asked the guys to “move their boys” out of the
way so the harness could be tightened fully. A call rang out over the
loudspeaker informing those around that in two minutes, we should scan
the skies for the specs that would be our friends.
I
climbed into the back of the golf cart and was driven out to the gravel
bullseye in the middle of the field, the constant photographer on the
watch.
“There they are!” an instructor shouted, readying himself to assist with the landing and recovery.
It
was Icarus, flying too close to the sun on his makeshift wings. He was
soaring, spinning in circles, coming around in a wide, sweeping arc. But
his wings would not melt to pieces; he was getting closer; I snapped
one, two, three pictures; there he was- and he was not Icarus, he was
Cameron, and he was safely landing on the ground, striding confidently
forward as if he’d been traveling by Portkey for years, falling out of
the sky on a regular basis. As his parachute was gathered up, there came
another- I recognized him immediately as Scoop, his floppy mop of
blonde-brown hair blowing in a gentle breeze. His long legs were pulled
in close to himself and then he was back again, standing firm on solid
ground, once more on this earth, a part of this world below the clouds
and the sun.
I
screamed for them like they were rockstars, and both vehemently told
the instructors they wanted to go again- right now- higher- faster-
longer-
I strode back across the field, camera
in hand, preparing to capture the next pair climbing aboard the plane
that looked so fragile when on the ground but so agile when climbing up
up up. Any fear was gone, and the adrenaline hadn’t started. All I felt
now was envy and impatience; I wanted to fly, and I wanted to fly now. I
couldn’t stand the thought of waiting for the next group to go- I
needed to experience this for myself.
But
I did wait, if impatiently, and waved goodbye to the next two boys who
climbed into the plane with their instructors. After what felt like an
age, I was being strapped into my own harness (snug all over but
especially pinching at the thighs) and went to receive my training.
“So what made you want to do this?” asked the instructor. I thought about it for a second, then decided on my answer.
“Well,”
I explained, “I’m only a teenager for a couple more weeks; I figured I
should do something stupid while I can still get away with it.”
“This isn’t stupid,” he laughed.
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| invincible, stupid, 19-year-old me // {personal photo} |
We, the only two girls brave enough for
this adventure, were shown the elegant ballet of preparing for the
jump. “Jump” is probably the wrong word for it; it’s actually a
fall. The instructions were clear, and I nodded that I was ready,
handing someone my camera to photograph my experience.
Still,
I was not scared. I was excited, like when you first walk through the
gates of an amusement park and pick out your favorite roller coaster. But
you still have to walk through the whole park, passed the over priced
pretzels and the giant costumed characters and the souvenir vendors and
the lame kiddy rides, and then there’s the wait in the impossibly long
line and the safety instructions and the bored ride operator who checks
the security of your enclosure with the lightest push on the bar…
I’m horribly impatient.
I
met my tandem instructor and allowed him to tweak the harness,
loosening and tightening and tugging and snapping and twisting. He gave
me a set of goggles, pulled them tight, and said that I needed them to
seal on my nose so that no air would be let in and they would stay in
place during free-fall. He said if my contacts were to pop out, don’t
worry, for when I landed and removed my goggles the little lenses would
be right there, and I could pop them back in again. He reviewed the
dance involved in making the freefall and we made our way towards the
plane.
I
crammed myself in behind the pilot, sitting on the floor (the pilot’s
seat was the only chair) with my feet stretched out in front of me, my
friend and our two instructors smushed together to my right. The plane
taxied down the makeshift runway with the door still open (for
circulation), then turned around and waited, crouching like a tiger, in
preparation for flight. The door was closed. The temperature shot up. My
heart rate remained impossibly steady.
We
took off, rising into the air, farther, higher, faster. From my
position sitting on the floor, I couldn’t see out the window to my
right, but I had other things to worry about. I crossed myself and began
to gather my thoughts, to pray.
I thanked God for the life He’d given
me, asked forgiveness for anything I’d done wrong. I told Him I was
ready, and I understood if He wanted to call me home that day. I mean,
honestly, if I had to die eventually anyway, this would be one hell of a
way to go out. Then I said a decade of the rosary, just for good
measure. A real sense of peace fell over me then; again, I was not
scared, I was not nervous, and for a moment I was not even excited; I
was just ready. I asked God for the serenity, strength, and sense to
execute the free-fall properly so as to not screw anything up. Then I
crossed myself again and started grinning.
“My
dad flies planes like this,” I shouted to my instructor over the buzz
of the propeller. “Not so sure what he’d think about me jumping out of
one.”
I
heard the pilot communicating with the air field, and knew from the
day’s experience that we were two minutes away from the drop zone. I was
told to turn around and kneel behind the pilot so my instructor could
tighten my harness one last time and attach us together. All the while
my mantra was the steps of the dance- plant my feet on the step, cross
my arms across my chest, three-two-one- arch my head back, pull my legs
up behind me.
“Stupid question,” I shouted.
“What’s that?”
“When I kick my feet back, do I go on the outside of your legs or in between them?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Just arch your back as much as you can as quickly as you can and leave it like that.”
The door opened; the cold air felt
refreshing after the boiling hot plane ride as I put on my goggles. My
instructor tucked my ponytail inside the cord so it wouldn’t get in his
face.
The first pair was lining themselves up- leaning out the door- and then-
They disappeared from view completely.
Still, I was not scared.
We
inched our way to the door on our knees. I sat on the edge of the
plane, put my feet on the step- but they wouldn’t plant solidly like I’d
been told! Instead they were being blown in the wind like the branches
of a frail tree, unable to take hold of a solid base. I didn’t panic;
something told me everything would be okay. I crossed my arms in front
of my chest. My instructor leaned us forward and put his foot on the
step- leaning forward like this I was able to plant my feet now.
“Okay ready?”
I nodded silently.
“Three-
two-one- arch!” he shouted. I felt us lean forward, almost in slow
motion, and then my feet were no longer touching anything and all
rational thought escaped my mind. The next few seconds were just
sensation, no thought.
The first sensation was cold. Really really cold.
The
next sensation- processing the image of the bottom of the plane
directly in front of me. My mind quickly put this together to mean that
we had flipped immediately upon exiting and were now upside down. Next I
had to process the image of the ground directly in front of me, which
meant it was below me, which meant we’d finished the flip.
The
next sensation was of my mouth stretched into a grin- I’d apparently
started smiling when I crossed my arms and was still smiling. My mouth
was filling with cold air and I couldn’t close it, so I tried to scream
but no sound could be heard though I was shouting myself hoarse, so I
stopped.
The advertisements said we’d be in
free-fall for 60-70 seconds; it felt like just an instant, just the
amount of time it takes to snap your fingers. Later, back on the ground,
back in this world, my friends and I rationalized that the fall was
probably only 30 seconds since the smaller plane couldn’t reach the high
altitude we had expected.
In
the air, all I knew was that free-fall was the most delicious experience
you could ever imagine. As soon as the cord was pulled and the
parachute began to deploy, I felt a tug pulling me back up briefly, and I
immediately craved that feeling again. I wanted it back- no, I needed
it back; I wanted to keep falling.
My
instructor tugged on both of the handles used for steering and suddenly
we were hovering. We weren’t floating, we weren’t gliding, we weren’t
descending to the ground, we were stationary there, looking about at
creation below us and soaking it all in.
“You
want to steer?” he asked me (in a regular voice now. The rushing wind
was gone and all was still, quiet, peaceful) and at first I said
no. “Aw, come on, girl- you’ve got nothing better to do up here!”
So I slipped my fingers through the loops and held onto the straps.
“Your dad pilots airplanes,” he said, “but you- you’re flying, girl.”
 |
| {personal photo} |
“That
was awesome!” I shouted over and over again, allowing myself to get
unhooked from my instructor. “I want to do it again right now!”
Awesome, awesome, awesome was all I felt.
 |
| {personal photo} |
I
called Mom and told her what I’d just accomplished, then explained why I
hadn’t told her I’d been planning it. I described the whole thing to
Dad, let him know the statistics- jumped 9,500 feet, free-fall for less
than 60 seconds, parachute deployed at 3000 feet, 5ish minutes of
coasting to the ground. Mom, I think, is still digesting it, still
trying to wrap her mind around the idea, and Dad is just very
impressed. He thinks I’m brave- but bravery is being scared of something
and doing it anyway. I wasn’t scared.
My baby sister thinks I’m crazy and other sister flipped out, shouting incoherently about how awesome I am.
I am pretty awesome.
I am young.
I am invincible.
I am alive.
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Mr. Geek has also been skydiving, though I'm not sure he would describe his experience quite so dramatically. Maybe I can convince him to share his story sometime, too.
Have you ever been skydiving? Would you go again?
Much love,
The Geeks
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